


Nobody Loves the Light Like a Blind Man

by OfComplimentaryColours



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Kissing, M/M, Smut, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-04 15:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfComplimentaryColours/pseuds/OfComplimentaryColours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire; nothing but a drunkard and a cynic. He wasn't there for the cause, never had been. No, he stayed for another reason entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Spark

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to Victor Hugo, etc. 
> 
> I simply couldn't resist at least attempting to write them and I hope i've at least captured something of each character. The lovely ItsOnlyTheFairytale (tumblr) has kindly agreed to be my beta. Well, I guess... enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is smitten with Enjolras, with the very idea of his being. His is a passion which ignites a flame within those surrounding him. A flame that burns brighter in some than in others.

Following the announcement, the students had left in small groups, some chattering, some sombre. All but two, that was. A cynic and a drunkard he might be, but there was one thing that Grantaire believed in. Well, one person. Ah, yes, Enjolras. That golden haired Apollo with his idealistic dreams, the passion that burned so hot it threatened to consume him. Now, Grantaire was no poet, but he was an artist and that fire was something he so longed to capture. He needed it. He thrived on it. He felt that it would consume him too whether the man himself knew it or not. Only, that was the problem; He was oblivious. His thoughts caught up in politics and revolution, how would he ever notice the longing stares of a drunk. Those stares, never particularly concealed, obvious to all but their focus. 

If he didn’t know better, he would think Enjolras unaware of his presence that very evening; so wrapped up was he in his planning. Only, he knew. He must. For, of all the amis de l’ABC, he was hardest on Grantaire. Yes, Apollo was fully aware that Grantaire did not truly believe in his cause. Even if only because he had told him so himself when emotions ran high.

_“I believe in you.”_

Simple words. Full of a meaning that he didn’t quite comprehend himself. He was lost, drowning, and this man… this man had become his air. After all, nobody loves the light like a blind man. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to touch that light; he longed to run his fingers through golden curls to press his lips against that jawline. So stoic and strong, the very thing he admired, yet he wished to undo it all. Who would think it? A lonely drunk yearning for someone he could never have. That was the painful truth of it all. He could not have him, for he was married to Patria. His homeland was his love.

Exasperated by his own thoughts, Grantaire stood and made his way over the man who forever seemed to be at the forefront of them. Though he had yet to say anything, he earned a response from the simple movement.

“You’re staggering and you reek of liquor. Unless you are willing to be of help I suggest you go home.” He hadn’t even looked up. His voice was low and commanding as ever. It almost held him where he was. Almost. Instead, he continued until he could lean against the table at which Enjolras sat.

“You don’t really believe it, do you?” Better to get straight to the point. As it were, they had but a few days left; there was no sense in dallying. “The people, they wont come. You know it as well as I. You dress it up with pretty words for the others, but you needn’t do it for me.” Each sentence had him inching slightly closer. Trying to get a rise, as always.

“They will come.” If he hadn’t seen the tension in the man’s shoulders he wouldn’t have thought he’d had any effect at all. “Must you question so much? Is faith too much to ask of you? Ah, but to a _drunk_ I doubt it matters.” Drunk. It was practically spat at him. Harsh, cruel… righteous, even. Oh, but would this man never _see_. Grantaire needed the drink. He clung to the bottle like a lifeline when he had nothing else, just as he clung to Enjolras. Why, he practically worshipped him. Not that it had ever gotten him anywhere. God knew he had never even come close.

“I have faith in _you_. We are opposites, you and I. You keep your faith and I shall keep my bottle. All I ask is that you permit me to stay.” Perhaps it was more than he should have said, but it seemed to have some effect. The resolve in Enjolras’ eyes never wavered, but he kicked out the chair closest to him in invitation without another word. Obviously, he had gone back to planning without giving a second thought to the implications of those words.  In his haste to move closer, he practically threw himself into the chair. A motion that didn’t even draw a disapproving look from that damned marble statue of a man.

Grantaire’s eyes roved over the form of the man before him, revelling in the lines of his face, the way the candlelight shone on his hair, his skin. Before he knew it he had inched closer, a hand reaching to pull Enjolras’ face toward his own. Lunging into the kiss before the other might react, though ‘kiss’ in this sense was more a crash of lips on lips. It lasted but seconds, long enough to bring a flush to his cheeks and dilate his pupils. Bringing him as close to sobriety as he’d been in years. Enjolras simply looked at him, eyes dark. There was outrage there, but something else too. Something _other_ that made Grantaire’s pulse race.

In a swift movement Enjolras was upon him. Pulling him up from the chair to press him against the wall behind it. He waited for the strike that never came. Instead he was pinned there, unable to move, Enjolras’ mouth pressed to his own in just as fierce a kiss as before. Something akin to a whimper escaped his lips as he pressed his tongue against the other mans lips. Asking permission. It was allowed, what a heady thought, a drunken dream perhaps. This must be. It couldn’t be the truth, he would wake up alone of the hard floorboards of his room as always.  Oh, but if only it didn’t feel so real, wet heat; the taste of _him_ , mingling with the lingering warmth of absinthe on his own tongue. He found his hands wandering of their own accord. Moving to grasp at hips, to pull Enjolras closer. Only, Enjolras pulled away. With a swift turn and not so much as a further glance, he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him. It was all Grantaire could do to stand. Panting against the wall, he stared at the door in amazement. He wasn’t waking up. Did that mean… it couldn’t. If it did he wasn’t sure that he could bear it.

The rest of the night he spent with a bottle. He needed the drunken stupor. It lulled him to sleep and quieted his thoughts. For now, at the very least. 


	2. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is conflicted, yet he must find some way to put an end to this. For the sake of France, he must. Though he finds himself almost unwilling.

                  He didn’t stop as the door slammed shut behind him. Damn that drunkard. Damn him. The time was close, so close and he had to do this _now_. Of all the people to do this to him, it would be Grantaire; the scruffy drunken cynic who tried his best to always undermine the cause. Did he not realise that he could ruin everything? Upon reaching his rooms, he slammed the door shut behind him, leaning against it to calm his breathing. It didn’t help. He hadn’t thought it would, not really, not when his emotions were in such turmoil.

                  Enjolras hadn’t known how Grantaire felt, at least, not consciously. Hell, he didn’t even know how he felt toward the drunkard. He supposed there had been something; a sort of ongoing battle of wills between them. Enjolras had his revolution, Grantaire opposed with his cynicism and disbelief. An unwilling signature: R. That alone, may simply have been a sign of their friendship if it hadn’t been for other moments, other things that had only just begun to make sense. There were the looks. Stares that seemed to penetrate his very soul, seemed to search for something they knew may not even be there. After all, it was clear that Grantaire had never truly expected his feelings to be reciprocated. That much was clear in his face as Enjolras had pulled away. It was that look in particular which captured his thoughts at the moment, confusion at the contact and loss of it, underneath that though… God, had there been a darkness there, a fire, a heat that sent a jolt through him also.

                   Had he been wrong to leave? No. It was the right thing to do. If he’d have stayed things might have escalated and that could be catastrophic with revolution so near. What would the others do if he was not clear headed to organise them, too distracted by thought of rough lips, hot tongue, medicinal with the taste of liquor; of lightly scratching stubble which he had liked the feel of far more so than he would ever admit. They might die. They might die because of him. That was precisely why he had left. He could not give himself over to whatever pleasures he wished. He had a duty to do. Had he not told Marius something similar mere hours ago?  
                  He slept little that night and what sleep he did get was not entirely restful.  However, it had afforded him the chance to think, or perhaps dwell. It was decided. He would find out what this all meant to Grantaire. He would explain and then take his leave. His duty was to France; regardless of those things he might want now more than he had ever even dreamt of in the past. If only the damned fool had kept his kisses to himself, had kept his distance. Perhaps then, perhaps then he wouldn’t have to hurt him. The ridiculous part was, that though Enjolras knew he should, he didn’t want to.  
                  After splashing a little cold water on his face and running a hand through his hair, he dressed and left for Grantaire’s rooms. Knowing him, drunken sleep would still be upon him as he curled in the chair closest to the door; perhaps even the floor, depending on the previous nights consumption. His bed, it seemed, was rarely used for sleep. Enjolras didn’t knock. He had long ago learned that such a thing would not rouse his friend and that it was simpler just to let himself in. He had had a key for a long time now. Come to think of it, he had always thought it odd that Grantaire would trust him to have it. To think that he would assume Enjolras might ever need it. Now, though, it was all becoming painfully clear.

                  He moved through the small living room quickly, not seeing Grantaire where he had expected him to be, and made his way to the bedroom. Contrary to his earlier assumptions, Grantaire was indeed in his bed; sprawled, dishevelled and fast asleep. Enjolras tried not to think of how easy it would have been for him to give in last night; for him to be there too, with those arms wrapped around him rather than a bottle. With  a small shake of his head, an internal chastisement, he plucked the bottle from Grantaire and put it on the table with a little more force than necessary. He woke with a start at that, wide eyed, blinking sleepily up at Enjolras.  
                  “I think perhaps I ought to explain myself.” His voice was a little rougher than he’d expected it to be; reluctant, and more than a little awkward. This was the type of situation Enjolras simply didn’t get himself into. His words weren’t coming as easily as they should. It might have helped if Grantaire had the decency to look a little ashamed, given that it had been him who initiated it, but no. That was something he wouldn’t truly expect from the cynic anyway.

                  His thoughts, having been lost in trying to remember what he had decided to say, were dragged back to reality as a hand pulled him forward by his wrist and a familiar face was once again close to his. Still drunk. He must be, or else he wouldn’t be so disrespectful as to not let Enjolras speak first.  
                  “Do go on, Apollo. I find myself ever interested in your words, though a lack of them might be more pleasing.” With a rough shove, Enjolras sent Grantaire backwards onto the bed. Trying his hardest to regain his composure.  
                  “That is exactly what I must explain and you well know it. Last night is not something that can be repeated. For the sake of France, it cannot.” His words were forceful. He had a duty.  
                  “Ah, _France. Patria!_ That’s all my Apollo cares for, is it not? He couldn’t spare a moment for the feelings of a drunk, surely not. Only, if a not-so-foggy memory serves me correctly, it would seem that he could; at least, for a short time. So tell me, Enjolras. Tell me how this cannot be. Tell me how you would deny yourself of some small pleasure even as you know you will die, as you know we will all die, in just a few days time! I beg of you, explain.”  
                  The passion in those words had Enjolras stumped for some small moment in time. Grantaire stayed put, eyes blazing in what would seem to be outrage.  
                  “What I chose to do in these coming days is none of your concern. You sign your name for us, R. You attend our meetings, but you do not even care for what becomes of France, do you? You do not care that the poor die in ever increasing numbers each day, that children starve as mothers sell themselves to care for them. You do not care that this country is slowly but surely falling.”  
                  “And why should I? Why should I care? Because you do? No, you have me all wrong Enjolras. You know very well I only attended those meetings because I believed in you, still do believe in you and you believe in all that. You are my cause. Forgive me if I am bold, it is simply that you do not seem to understand. Apollo! What fine marble! With your ideas and your revolution and your _passion._ It is that which I crave, but cannot hold myself. No, I will stick with my wine and you with your ideals. Only, I do not think that need be all you can have. You are a fine leader, but you are untouched; perfection that denies itself the touch of a human hand. I always thought that perhaps you did not crave it, only you changed that. Did you not? Those were not the actions of a man who would be kept from what he wants."

                   “You say I do not understand, but I do! I understand more than you seem to, my friend. We are but tiny creatures who can only aspire to spark a change in something so huge but we must try. We must fight for the people because they will not fight without someone to lead. They must be spurred into action for all of our sakes. You think that personal want is so important, but that will change nothing. Were I to give in to your foolish demands, what would that do? Leave us unprepared in the coming days. We must plan. We must fight!” His breathing was ragged, cheeks flushed. He hadn’t come expecting a heated debate. Nor had he expected such fire from his biggest cynic.

                    Grantaire rose back to his knees and Enjolras found himself being pulled by the lapels into a kiss more heated than that of the night before. Then there had been uncertainty. This time, there was intent, _need_.   
  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised you guys smut in the tags. Next chapter, I promise. I should think Grantaires POV on that will be much more, ah, intriguing. 
> 
> As always, beta'd by Itsonlythefairytale and comments are welcome. :3


	3. Fervid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire wasn't entirely sure what he was expecting to follow such a heated exchange but it certainly was not what had happened. Provided his own memories were not entirely born of wine, that is.

Once he had Enjolras in his grasp it was all he could do to resist pulling him down onto the bed there and then, but he felt perhaps a little more persuasion would be in order. He allowed his hands to wander to those wonderful hips, refraining now from cupping that fine marble he had commented on not so long ago. Grantaire pulled his Apollo flush against him, surprised to find some interest there. _Yes, he could work with that._ He moved his mouth to that pale neck; nipping, kissing and biting his way down as deft fingers worked their way back up to push his jacket and waistcoat to the floor and unbutton his shirt. Hands roamed over lean abdominal muscle, smoothing down Enjolras’ sides and letting his fingers rest just beneath the waistband of his trousers. Up until that point Enjolras’ hands had remained by his sides, fisted as if fighting his own desires. Grantaire had no doubt that he was, but now that was no longer the case. Enjolras’ fingers tangled in his hair, pulling Grantaire’s face back to his own. It would seem that the chief wasn’t content to let him do all the work. The kiss was not elegant, all tongues and teeth, neither one caring. The cynic pulled away to utter a somewhat breathy request.  
“Boots..” Enjolras was still wearing those damned knee high things, hindering the removal of that last piece of clothing that would leave him bare. How long had he wished to see all of him? A flawed perfection in mind and marble in body he had never been able to escape.  Enjolras bent and removed his boots, immediately gravitating back to where he had been before, pulling his cynic back toward him to lock lips once more. It was enough just to have his feelings reciprocated but he wanted to give his Apollo more. He would give his mind, his body, even his life. Everything. And he would give it willingly, for what else had he to believe in? What else had enraptured him beyond all escape? Not even life itself had done that. Life in it's fleeting inevitability had always left him unsatisfied. 

Extricating himself once more, he kissed his way back downward, Enjolras finally stepped out of that last piece of clothing. A sight, yes, but he wanted to taste, to feel. With a look almost akin to reverence he leant forward, barely brushing a kiss against him, revelling in the sharp intake of breath from Enjolras. Taking him in hand, he proceeded slowly, teasing licks and gentle suction but not once taking his eyes off of his Apollo. Taking note of every gasp, every sigh, each involuntary thrust of his hips. He took his time, working his tongue over every inch of him that he could reach, searching for the spots that made him whimper and his knees threaten to buckle. Drawing him so close to the edge, only to pull back until finally, finally he took him in entirely, faster this time and with more suction. His tongue still working at those spots he had found to be so delightfully sensitive. It was only a matter of time before he had him undone, thrusting desperately into his mouth for release and when he reached it with a cry, Grantaire swallowed everything he was given without complaint; only a moan that he couldn’t hold back any longer. 

Of course, by now he himself was desperate for that same release. Yearning but not willing to ask, his pleasure wasn’t the point. He needn’t have worried so - A weak-kneed Enjolras had already, somewhat forcefully, pushed him back onto the bed. Though, his inexperience was clear despite his fervour; his hands shook ever so slightly as he traced the older man’s collarbones, his chest, his stomach before unbuttoning his shirt. He dipped his head to kiss Grantaire’s neck, sucking there to leave a ruddy mark, a hand resting on the other mans hip. Was he teasing? Well, two could play at that game. Pinned as he was, he had some movement still left to him, enough to buck his hips upward to rub himself against Enjolras, the friction of the fabric he himself was straining against enough to earn him a gasp. A moment later that hand had moved from his hip to work on the buttons of his trousers. He lifted his hips and let Enjolras pull them down once he had finished fumbling with the buttons, kicking them off. 

To his credit, the blonde only stared for a moment, his initial stroke only a little hesitant; everything about him screamed inexperience. Grantaire didn’t mind, couldn’t. In fact he was honoured. Privilleged, even, to seemingly be the only one Enjolras had deemed to touch like this, to let touch him. His moans were not quiet as Enjolras found a rhythm, languid strokes with mixed pressure, a twist at the top. He bit into Enjolras’ shoulder as his strokes increased in speed, coaxing him further toward a precipice when he had already been so close. _So close._ The orgasm that ripped through him made him see stars, face buried in the crook of Enjolras’ neck and making a sound that could only be considered halfway between a sob and a moan. They lay there like that for a while, sticky but unwilling to move, just holding. A kiss to his temple pulled him out of the stupor he’d lapsed into, it wasn’t soft but it was reassuring. Nothing about Enjolras was ever soft. Charming, terrifying, _consuming_.   

It was then that Enjolras shifted, rolled to the side and pulled Grantaire with him so that he rested with his head on his shoulder. He might have said something if the soft lighting illuminating the other man's profile hadn’t captured him so. His face was delicate, perhaps even feminine, but the lines were strong enough in themselves. That bone structure was something that he’d marvelled at so often, and for so long. In fact, he’d painted it so often it was burned into his memory, painfully so. It was what he saw when he closed his eyes, after all. The darkness was nothing compared to that light. A beauty that seemed altogether ethereal even in rage; he was more an avenging God than a angry schoolboy. An unbidden thought slipped in then, he had defiled him. Sullied him with his own filthy existence. Did he know a more apt embodiment of sin than himself? That he had dared to touch such a divine thing. In fact, if it weren’t for his own bliss he might have broken down then, sobbed in the man's arms as if it were a normal thing. He could not tell Enjolras any of this, of course. That would only make him the more pathetic. What a wretch he was. Even as he shook those thoughts, he imagined he was being used either way. After all, they were to die soon. He had no hope that they would not. Foolish children playing at war. If it became apparent that his Apollo was only using him to fulfil something he had not deigned necessary until now he was fine with that. Why wouldn’t he be? He would take anything he could get from this man as he had taken his scorn until now. No, this was okay. This he could handle. A life without this man, he could not, would not. Only as this thought ended did he note the evenness of Enjolras’ breathing, the smooth rise and fall of his abdomen. He was sleeping and Grantaire would not move for all the wine on the Earth.  
    

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I hope this wasn't in any way anti-climatic, and it certainly isn't the end of this. Please feel free to leave feedback, it's always appreciated. 
> 
> Beta: ItsOnlyTheFairytale

**Author's Note:**

> Critiques/comments much appreciated.


End file.
